“There they are,” Aroden said while pointing ahead of them triumphantly, “the great walls of Orwell.”
Chapter III
People stared at them suspiciously as they rode through a small community on the outskirts of Orwell.
Along the narrow road leading through the centre of the town stood a few homes. Children played in the dirt road or on the porches of the wooden houses while their soiled, weary parents toiled in the fields off to the sides of the path. A worn, decrepit fence ran parallel to the road, separating it from the fields.
William’s horse almost knocked into one of the little girls on the track, and he yanked on the reins to avoid her. To her credit, she flashed an apologetic glance, brushing her dirty long brown hair out from in front of her eyes, and ran into one of the smallest homes on the street. William could feel the surrounding people watching them and felt a shudder up his spine.
“They seem angrier than last time,” he muttered to Max, who rode closely beside him.
“They live a hard life here,” his brother replied under his breath. “They aren’t connected to Orwell, so they’re forced to fend for themselves.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sure they dislike any who travel towards the city, especially when the travellers own a horse. Just having a horse here would likely make a big difference.”
“Then why don’t we leave one for them?” William said.
Max gave a solemn shrug while looking around. “I doubt they’d be able to feed it,” he said before falling silent.
They passed slowly through the settlement, avoiding eye contact with the people and keeping their horses steady. William couldn’t help but admire all of the farmers in the fields. The majority of the community was likely out there, tilling away at the dirt, carrying buckets of water to and from the well to the crops, or throwing seeds into recently ploughed soil.
The crops in the fields barely peaked above the ground, and the soil appeared slightly dark from the recent watering. Such small plants, yet they represented their very livelihood, the same hope the villagers saw in their children and their futures. It wouldn’t be long before the farmers retreated to their homes with their families to rest, only to come back out to water the crops once again after the sun set. They’d be out there until the late hours of the day, well after the two moons presented themselves, and then finally catch a few hours of sleep only to repeat the day once more.
Ahead of them was a fork in the road, the wider one leading towards Orwell ahead and the smaller one to the right leading East. Before reaching it, they could see a tall, thick wooden post with a few signs jutting out at differing heights. At the top was the sign to Orwell, etched in elaborate, thick black writing on the sun-bleached light wood. But Richard focused on the sign beneath it pointing east. He took the initiative to ride ahead of his brothers to reach his father, a hand in front of his eyes to block the sun directly in the Northern sky. Before they could reach the intersection, Richard spoke up, mustering as much confidence as his sixteen years could summon.
“Father,” he started, his voice slightly cracking. He cleared his throat before continuing, trying to deepen it. “There’s no point in me entering the city. I’ll simply be turning around to travel to Forelorne.”
Aroden didn’t respond.
“I should just turn at the intersection ahead and travel to Forelorne.”
“It’s a fair point of wasting time to enter the city,” Aroden conceded.
“Exactly,” Richard nodded as if he’d attained victory.
“But the Arraci have already entered the city by now.”
Richard could see the impending defeat. “I’ll be fine without them,” he tried in vain. “I’ve made the journey several times now. I know it’s safe.”
“No, Richard,” Aroden asserted, his tone hardening, “you cannot leave without an Arracian guard. You know that.”
Richard sighed but rose to the occasion. “I’m sixteen, and the town is only a few miles to the East,” he complained. “I’ll be there before you even reach Zed’s house. I can just take the trip alone.”
“No, Richard,” Aroden barked back angrily. “We enter the city together. We do this the right way.”
“But…”
“I cannot be worrying about your safety when I meet with Zed,” he interrupted. “You know the rules.”
Richard mumbled to himself quietly before falling to the back again. Adriana tried to offer a word of comfort, and even extended a hand on his shoulder, but he ignored her. His brothers remained silent. He had made the trip several times, now, and not once had a disturbance interrupted the journey. In fact, the last time he went, Aroden made ten Arraci accompany him…ten. And Richard said that all they did was cause problems when they reached Forelorne; apparently, they had even almost attacked the alchemist.
The five of them rode past the road to Forelorne in silence, though William could sense his brother’s anger. After a while, the dirt road turned into a clean, white stoned one as they approached Orwell. Surrounding areas continued to improve in quality as they neared the city. Run-down wooden farm houses became well-crafted brick homes, and a small marketplace was set up just outside the gates ahead, where merchants denied licences by the city set up their wares and struggled to make a living. Most of the people who lived in Orwell stayed in Orwell; they’d have little reason to leave, as the city provided all of the imaginable commodities. As a result, outside merchants serviced most of the surrounding settlements, though not a particularly profitable market considering most of them lacked the coin to buy much more than food.
The huge, thick metal gates of Orwell came into focus.
They were open for the day with a few people passing in and out. The images on the inside of each door matched those on the outside, depicting half of Orwell’s crest on either side. They showed two great eagles, their wings spread wide, meeting at the centre beak-to-beak with two majestic lions fighting beneath them, gashes and tears across their bloodied bodies as they fought to the death. It served as both a lesson and a threat, one that could deter most of the world’s kingdoms from even attempting an attack on the city. Orwell represented the eagles looking down upon the petty fighting of the rest of the world, or so Orwell’s people preached this.
Though they’d seen the gates many times, they still stared at the image as they approached. The surrounding white walls reached high above, much taller than most in the known world, with delicate carvings in friezes lining all the sides portraying great battles and powerful rulers of old. Their walls represented the mastery of craftsmanship and attention to detail. However, over the centuries of wars, the wall’s impressive carvings had several blackened marks from the very battles they depicted, adding an additional level of admiration and stature. But even after the strongest siege weapons had crashed against the walls over the centuries, no cracks existed, the gleaming fortress living up to its impenetrable legend.
Not only the walls displayed the city’s strength; hundreds of guards peered over the huge battlements above, all with weapons ranging from spears, bows, and javelins at the ready. Along the wall were equally spaced extensions where metal siege weapons sat, a huge boulder ready at all times. The city’s capacity to rain death on an unworthy foe would end a battle before it could even begin, a crushing reality discovered from the foes depicted in the battles along the walls. The guards all stared with angry eyes, all ready at a moment’s notice to attack. Banners with the same crest as the front gates lined the wall, held by long wooden poles and gently waving in the mild breeze. Towers stood along the wall, too, with siege weapons at the top and slits along the body of the tower. No doubt archers stood at the ready inside. Orwell had turned their walls into a monstrous death machine, one that had won them countless wars and ensured the continuation of the city for millennia.
As if the outer wall would not suffice, Orwell boasted two walls running parallel all around the city with enough area between them for a small army to stand. While the inner wall was m
uch older than the surrounding one, it offered similar defence positions and impenetrability minus the additional smaller siege positions.
Aroden led his son’s and Adriana towards the open front gates, their weapons carefully concealed and all of them restraining from glancing up at the watchful eyes of the guards, avoiding eye contact the whole time. They needed to blend in – the last thing they wanted was for the guards to call them out and be taken away. Those who were taken seldom saw the light of day again; Orwell didn’t have the best of reputations when treating those it deemed a threat.
The sons were probably in no danger – they were younger when the usurpation in Criton occurred and Aroden was dethroned. Most people wouldn’t recognise them now that they’d grown up. Aroden, however, had to hide his face all the time. He displayed a beard and long hair to mask his regal features. Most people thought he died that night along with the rest of the royal family, and he wanted to keep it that way. It was best his people think the entire royal family had perished that night in the palace rather than the kingdom know that their true king lived with three heirs in an ancient hidden fortress. The time for restoration was coming, but for now, the less his people knew, the better.
To the exterior sides of the front gate were the city’s main stables for visitors, a huge structure that extended far in both directions. There was another stable inside the city, though only Orwell’s citizens could ride through the streets. And one didn’t become a citizen of Orwell; that was a birth right. They stopped in front of the main stables and jumped down from their horses. William never liked leaving his friend here but had little choice; they couldn’t bring horses into the city, but something told him that Windrunner would be more than happy to rest here. He probably wouldn’t miss William at all, not after the relentless journey they’d just endured.
An unpleasant, grossly thin man with rough black clothes and a snarled, menacing face came up to them with a piece of parchment and an inked feather. He looked at them with mean eyes over his sharp nose. “How many?” he barked overtop the small piece of paper, “and for how long?”
“Five horses,” Max answered to avoid attention on Aroden, “for at least two nights, please.”
“That’ll be ten coins, then,” the man said while quickly scribbling something incoherent on the paper.
Max pulled out a pouch of coins and passed ten to the man. “Here you are.”
“Very well,” the man said. He motioned for a couple of stable hands to come over and take the horses. Then he grinned. “This will cover bedding for two nights. Do you want us to feed them?”
“Feed…?” Max repeated in surprise, his eyebrows rising. “Well…yes, of course you need to feed them.”
“That’ll be two more extra coins then.”
Max bit his tongue. “Here you are,” he said and passed two more.
“And water,” the man continued, “do you want them to have water?”
Max could feel his anger build and his fist clench. “Yes, of course they need to have water,” he said through grinding teeth.
“Five more coins then,” the man smiled, his jagged teeth displaying his pleasure in swindling the visitors, “water’s scare around here.”
“This cost only two coins per horse the last time we visited Orwell,” Max calmly stated, though furious with this extortion.
“Well, the price has gone up.”
“Take it,” Max said, almost throwing the coins at the man’s face and avoiding pointing out the fact that a natural spring sprouted water all around here for free.
“Good, good,” he grinned again to himself, his eyes focused on the coins. “They’ll be well-taken care of here, I promise you.” He pointed the feathered pen at them, his expression souring. “But if you’re not here by the middle of two days from now, we’ll set these horses out loose and you can find them yourself.”
“We’ll be here,” Max calmly assured. He could feel William and Aroden seething at the man’s tone. Even Richard looked angry, and he rarely payed attention to anything. “Thank you,” Max said and the man scurried away.
William shook his head. “I can’t…”
“Try to ignore it, brother,” Max interrupted him while they waited for the stable hands to take the horses’ reins. “We don’t want a conflict here.”
William leaned into his horse’s head and mumbled a few words, patting his drenched neck gently and staring into his eyes. The stable hand reached for the reins, and William directed his attention to him. “Take care of this horse,” he demanded.
“Of course,” the man said. He looked friendly enough, his clothes even more raggedy then the stable master and boney legs so thin it surprised William he could even stand on them. “We always take care of our horses.”
William handed him the reins, as did everyone else, and they turned to leave. Max led the way while Aroden took the middle position, Adriana lagging behind them all. They advanced through the open outer gates and into a large, barren courtyard floored with solid rock slabs surrounded by huge white walls on every side, all with closely spaced slits for archers to stand behind. This courtyard had been used multiple times to trap unsuspecting attackers that dared to invade Orwell; no doubt these stone slabs saw much blood in their time here, and it always unnerved William to think about how many people died in the very place he walked. Directly ahead was the gatehouse of the old wall, and to their flanks were connecting partitions to the old and new ones, the spaces between the inner and outer wall behind them. This was every bit as much a graveyard as it was a courtyard; with guards on all four walls, the number of projectiles that could be plunged into this large square could dispatch an entire army in a matter of moments.
At the centre of the square stood a magnificent, tall statue of an honourable warrior, one that was erected many centuries ago by Orwell’s forefathers. In one hand, the warrior firmly held a large, rectangular shield that extended the full length of his body. In the other, he held a long sword overtop the slightly cracked shield pointed directly away from him towards the front gate. Thick metal armour covered his body with an accompanying sleek helmet. His eyes stared in all directions; they carried a life of their own, a menacing, frightening glare that struck fear into his enemies. Though still pristine compared to most sculptures, a few slash marks could be seen as they passed by the idol and a few darker stains showed upon further inspection on the warrior’s feet. Numerous doomed warriors likely saw that sculpture before their untimely demise, their final vision being those menacing eyes before the darkness took them.
Richard gulped as they passed.
Part of this courtyard’s game was mental. It was a large expanse of open area with hundreds of eyes watching, a predicament that would leave even the innocent feeling guilty. Max resisted the temptation to walk faster, as would most anxious people, and maintained a steady pace as they made their way across. They couldn’t stare at the floor the whole time – that would be too obvious – but did everything in their power to shed the watchful stares. Suspicion shared by the people of Orwell came as no surprise considering their war-plagued history. But Max navigated them through undisturbed; they reached the second, equally massive open gate.
Through the second set of heavy doors, these older ones made of old-fashioned, thick wood with an upgraded metal covering, they saw Orwell’s ground market district with the three huge mountains in the backdrop. As they passed through the second gate, the majestic jagged peaks came into view once more. The city weaved around the face of three mountains, one flanking each side and the largest third one in the centre being the primary mountain attached to the city.
Being a tiered city, the lowest level was the ground market-place, where they now stood and where most of the city’s wares were sold. Also on the first level, a short distance walk from the markets, stood Orwell’s massive library; many of the books there discussed Orwell’s history, but much of it was in different languages. The second level of the city was primarily used for residential and
living quarters, though even that was split up into three distinct districts. Most people never saw the rest of the levels higher up in the mountain; the third level was an additional defensive layer equipped with barracks and massive siege equipment, quite a sight for those on the second level to see. The fourth level housed the city’s elite, who seldom travelled down the levels, and the fifth…most people assumed that’s where the city’s government resided, though no one truly knew. And, in addition to all of those levels, many more offshoots existed throughout the mountains; it was no surprise that every invader had failed to take this unconquerable city.
Only a small crowd wandered around the markets at this time; much of the business occurred in the early or late hours of the day to avoid the heat, especially for merchants that specialised in foods. Many of those merchants would have retired to rest again by now in preparation for the next day of business. But a few merchants sold their wares along the centre of the market, mainly consisting of trinkets or the occasional fabrics, with potential customers wandering around and looking at their wares. The marketplace bore an open layout, a large high street with permanent timber stalls running through the middle and two avenues on either side for the established merchants. Along the centre were the traveling or less-established traders who were granted access to the city for business; people who lived outside the city or from distant places. They’d set up their area each morning on the cobbled street and pack it up each night, only to repeat the process the next day if allowed. On the sides of the large avenue were the established merchants, the ones who Orwell deemed necessary and had provided them with permanent residence. Strong, stone buildings lined the sides, though most of the doors were closed in the day’s impending heat as many of the side merchants dealt with food.
The Secrets of Brymar (The Elitherian Fragments Book 1) Page 4